4 comments/ 1432 views/ 2 favorites Queen of the Tidewater Peloton By: trigudis It had been one of the coldest winters on record. Not much snow, but cold enough to force avid cyclists like Mallory Greenfeld into indoor spin classes. But now it was early May and all that was behind her as she prepared for a Saturday morning ride on her yellow aluminum Schwinn. She planned to ride about twenty miles, a relatively slow twenty miles. Save for a few days during that harsh winter and the wet March and April that followed, her bike had remained idle, collecting dust. The spin classes helped, and so did spinning on her trainer at home, so she wasn't totally out of shape. But spinning wasn't riding; it was more work than fun, a colossal bore akin to watching paint dry. After tying back her long brown hair, she pumped her tires, then stuffed her saddle bag with her usual accoutrements for the road—driver's license, credit card, cash, spare tube, tire irons, and cell phone. Then she slipped on her helmet and sunglasses, clipped her cycling shoes into the peddles and took off. Her route would take her through varied terrain, hilly for the first few miles, then flat to rolling. It was just past ten, and the air temp was close to seventy, ideal riding weather. It felt great to finally shed those long, cold weather outfits for black Spandex shorts and a short-sleeve jersey, lemon-yellow with three large pockets in back where Mallory kept an energy bar. At peak shape, she could pace at over sixteen miles per hour, hardly racing speed but more than respectable for an avid recreational cyclist. She was one of the faster women in the Tidewater Peddlers, the cycling club she joined four years ago, right after college graduation. She aspired to get faster, to whip herself into the sort of shape required to race. Tidewater, in addition to their recreational club, also sponsored a men's and women's racing team. Recreational cycling was great, but the challenge of racing intrigued her, called out to her competitive nature. The desire was there; what she needed most was a qualified coach to help her realize her ambition. Today, however, she'd be satisfied with a pace of between thirteen and fourteen. No use pushing it so early in the season, especially after months of down time. There would be plenty of time for strutting her aerobic stuff, hammering over thirty to fifty miles. Club rides, while not official races could still get competitive, and Mallory liked nothing better than going wheel-to-wheel with riders like herself, riders who pushed their own personal envelope. Today was for smelling the roses, although it was cow manure rather than roses that she smelled from the acres of pastureland she passed through, fields with red barns, barbed wire fences and cows staring at her with a look of dull insouciance as she peddled by. Traffic was relatively light in this part of the county. Still, she didn't neglect looking into her handlebar mounted mirror to check what was coming. You could never be too safe on a bike. Besides motor traffic, the road held debris that could easily flatten the thin, narrow tires of a road bike. Five miles out, she saw what looked like a patch of glass on the road's narrow shoulder. She started to swerve left to avoid it, then swerved back after seeing a red F-150 Ford pickup coming up on her rear. Too late. In seconds, she hit the glass with both tires. Then she heard it, the sickening whoosh whoosh whoosh of punctured tubes deflating. Both of them. This was a first, two flats on one ride, which is why she never carried more than one spare tube. Now what? With only one spare, she'd obviously need to be picked up. After wheeling her bike onto a gravel driveway, she whipped out her cell, first calling her mother, then a couple friends. All went into voice mail. "Please call me back, I'm stuck on the road on my bike with two flat tires," she pleaded, her voice tinged with urgency. It didn't look as if anybody was home in the white clapboard farmhouse she stood next to. She could just stand there, waiting for a call back or maybe walk her bike to the next house, a quarter mile away. But what could these people do for her anyway? She couldn't very well ask strangers to drive her back. How long would she have to wait before help arrived? She pictured herself still standing in that driveway, her shiny Schwinn on its side as darkness descended on the rural landscape. Not her worst nightmare but close. She struggled to stay optimistic, hoping she'd soon get a call back. Meanwhile, she'd help kill time by changing at least one of her tires. She quick-released her rear wheel, pulled out her plastic tire irons and went to work. A skilled bike mechanic she wasn't, but changing tires she could do, a task she learned by trial and error over the years. She dug one end of the tire iron under the rim and hooked the other end to the spoke. Then she slipped the other iron under the tire, and began moving it around the wheel to loosen it from the rim. Intensely into her work, her back to the road, she didn't notice the cyclist until he pulled up on his black, all carbon Specialized. "Need some help?" She straightened up and spun around. "Um, yeah, I do...if you have a spare tube. Both my tires went flat." He clicked his tongue and shook his head like an adult shaming a child for naughty behavior. "You should always carry at least three spare tubes with you. Me, I carry four." He stood astride his bike's slightly sloping top tube, grinning. "Yeah, I know that now," she said, annoyed by his smug, condescending tone. "Next time I will. So, can I borrow one of your tubes so I can get back on the road?" "Sure, but then you'll be tubeless, and who's to say you won't flat again?" She needed this guy's help like she needed her two flat tires. "Look, I plan to abandon my twenty-mile route and ride the five miles back to the parking lot. Chances are I won't flat on the way back." He nodded, set his bike down and slipped off his sunglasses and helmet, revealing a pile of dirty blond hair, thick and wavy. Slightly under six-feet and broad shouldered, he looked the part of a well-conditioned aerobic athlete, an unusually large aerobic athlete replete with muscular arms and legs and a well developed chest, the sort of chest made for pinning medals on. His calves had that sweet diamond shape that bodybuilders crave, and his thighs' vastus medialis, known as the "teardrop muscle," hung over his knees like protective shields. Reaching into the rear pocket of his yellow jersey, he pulled out one tire iron and a spare tube. "I'll work your front wheel while you do the rear," he said. She noticed his thickly muscled forearms as he pushed one end of the tire iron under the tire and clipped the other end to the spoke. "So, where's your other tire iron?" she asked, her voice a smug parody of his. "You should always carry two, you know." "Only if you need two," he said. She watched in amazement as he worked his thumb and fingers around the rim, loosening the tire with his bare hands. "See, it's all in the wrists." Her jaw dropped. She shook her head. "It's all in your wrists. My wrists require two." "Whatever," he said, pulling the punctured tube from the tire. "Meanwhile, let's get you back on the road." "Thanks for your help," Mallory said after the repairs, looking up into his blue eyes. A handsome dude, she had to admit, a blue-eyed, square jawed Adonis with the grip of a superman. Handsome but conceited, she decided. Beautiful, he decided, she was amazingly beautiful. He did a quick dissection starting with her skin, baby-soft and satin-smooth, he imagined. Then her hair, silky and straight. Then her eyes, emerald green and sparkling. Then her smile, one that seemed to enhance the already bright morning sun. Normally, he went for taller women, taller than Mallory's five-feet four inches. But she was lithe and well proportioned and that made her look taller. "No problem, you're welcome," he said. His eyes then drifted to her Schwinn's triple chainring crank. "Oh, one more thing. You really should get a compact. Triples are passé. They're for neophytes." He had a point. Triple chain rings, the small, thirty-tooth ring on them known as the "granny gear," were made for steep hill climbing. Stronger riders normally made do with a double, and a full double at that, with a tooth count of fifty-three and thirty-nine. In recent years, more riders had dropped triples in favor of compact doubles, with their fifty and thirty-four teeth. In combination with a high tooth rear cassette, the low gear ratios of compacts matched those of triples. "You don't say. Well, I'll get that along with the two spare tubes you said I should carry." "Three. At least three spare tubes." "Right. In fact, I'll carry four, just like you. Anything else I should know, Mr. Know It All?" He chuckled. "My name for starters." He extended his hand. "Lance Armstrong." "Sure you are. And I'm Floyd Landis in drag." He laughed. "I'm used to the snide remarks, but yours might be the most original I've heard so far. But really, my parents named me way before thee Lance Armstrong became famous. Or infamous now, what with the doping scandal. If only I had his talent." "You look talented enough." Damn it, why did she say that? He didn't need complementing, least of all from her, a cycling neophyte, he implied. She felt more like slapping him than giving him kudos. "I do okay. So what's your name? Your real name." She hesitated, deciding if she should even tell him. He had helped her, sure, but she could have done without his preachy remarks about spare tubes and compact cranks. Oh, what the hell. "Mallory, Mallory Greenfeld." "Hmm...Is that Irish?" "Very funny." "How's this for funny? I'm also Jewish." "Yeah, like I'm Irish." "No, really. My mom's name is Levy. Dad didn't convert but I was raised Jewish. Hebrew school. Bar mitzvah. The whole megillah." "You're full of surprises, aren't you?" "Maybe. Anyway, Mallory Greenfeld, we now have three spare tubes between us, probably enough to get us through our ride today. I've done thirty-five miles already out of the fifty I planned. If you'd like, you can tag along with me and complete your route. Then I'll give you one of my tubes when we break off." Tag along with him? He'd no doubt drop her like a bad habit. Besides, she'd didn't feel comfortable taking more of his tubes and she damn sure didn't want another one of his self-righteous lectures. "Thanks, but I'm slow today. You wouldn't get much of a workout." "How slow is slow?" "Fourteen, tops." She was surprised he didn't snicker. He checked his computer. "I'm a little over seventeen now, but I don't mind slowing down. I could use the company." Especially if the company looks like you, he thought. She hesitated. "Well, I don't know. I owe you for one tube already and—" Her phone went off. It was her mother asking where she could be picked up. Mallory said she was okay, thanks to a "good Samaritan." Then she slipped her phone back into her jersey. "So, do we have a ride?" "Well, okay, though I don't know why a hammerhead like you would waste his time riding with a triple crank, slow neophyte like me." He flashed a mischievous grin. "Like I said, I could use the company." During their ride, Mallory learned that Lance was the right kind of company for her as well. Besides being a hunk, he was an ex-racer turned professional cycling coach. She revealed her ambition to race for Tidewater and Lance agreed to take her on. But there was one small problem: She couldn't afford his fee, a hefty fifty dollars an hour. She worked for herself as an interior decorator. She did okay, made enough to support the basic necessities but hardly enough to spring for the luxury of a gourmet cycling coach. "Okay, so what can you afford to pay me?" Lance asked. Their ride over, they were astride their bikes at the break-off point. It was close to noon and the bright sun had pushed the air temp past the mid-seventies. "Not much. An amount that would most likely insult your level of expertise, I'm sure." She lowered her eyes. "Okay, how about this? My coaching in exchange for your help in decorating the house I recently purchased. It hasn't been remodeled in years and needs a lot of work. Deal?" Her mouth agape, it took her a few seconds to answer. "Are you serious? Lance, I don't want to rip you off. I can afford to pay you something. How about—" He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "You're not ripping me off, believe me. It's entirely selfish. I get free interior decorating services, plus the pleasure of molding an ambitious recreational cyclist into a racing cyclist. And a beautiful one at that. Deal?" He reached over his handlebars to shake her hand. He wanted to kiss her. He pictured himself leaning over to plant his lips on that sweet mouth of hers. Oh so tempting and oh so wrong. Which, of course, made it all the more tempting, like so many other things that violate protocol. Her face brightened. "How can I possibly turn that down? Deal, absolutely," she said, shaking his hand. Lance got her training seven to twelve hours a week, quite doable because she made her own work hours. His program was varied and intense, basic strength and endurance work coupled with the logistics of different types of racing—road, time trialing and criterium. She surprised herself with how quickly she advanced, how much faster she got with each passing week. She felt excited but a little guilty that she had not yet held up her end of the deal; namely, the interior decorating on Lance's house. In fact, she had yet to even see his house, something she mentioned following one of their morning training sessions. "You're right, it's about time," Lance said after they had racked their bikes on their cars. "Follow me. I'll fix us lunch and then you can make suggestions." He lived in an upscale, post-World War Two development of sprawling brick and stone ranchers that sat on close to an acre of land. Like Lance's house, many of them had driveways and two-car garages. Mallory was impressed. "Either you hit the lottery or you've done very well with your personal trainer business." "No lottery," he said after hanging his bike upside down on hooks suspended from the garage roof. "But yeah, my business is doing okay and I got lucky, buying this place in an estate sale. The former owners, both in their eighties, died within weeks of each other. Their kids then sold it for a song in as-is condition, just to be rid of it. It needs a lot of work inside as you'll soon see." He showed her in through a side entrance that led to the kitchen. Lance was right; it looked like it hadn't been remodeled in decades. Drab, worn linoleum covered the counter tops and floor, and the appliances, the stove and fridge looked like they might have been featured in a dream kitchen ad, circa 1970. Mallory envisioned granite counter tops, shiny hardwood flooring, stainless steel appliances and plain white cabinets to replace the cheesy Early American design of the set here. The flower patterned wallpaper, peeling and boring, would have to go. The wood table and four chairs that sat in the middle of the room she'd leave alone, at least for now. She took a seat, keeping those thoughts to herself while Lance pulled out a blender to mix a high protein smoothie. "Anything I can do to help?" "Not a thing," Lance said, flipping the switch on the machine to make the first batch, a blend of vanilla flavored whey protein powder mixed with plain yogurt, fresh fruit and skim milk. "These will be ready in no time. If you'd like to wash up, there's a bathroom down the hall, second door on your right." A good shower would be better, she thought, but since she didn't bring a change of clothes, there was no point. The whirring sound of the blender faded as she stepped into the dining room, then the living room, then the hall which led to the main bathroom. After washing and drying her hands and face, her imagination went to work. She envisioned a new sink, a glass enclosed tub/shower unit and shelving hung in place of that ugly round mirror. Stepping into the hall, she assumed the room with the open door was the master bedroom. It had a bed, half-made, a chest of drawers and a closet, its sliding doors opened far enough where she could see hangers full of clothes and shoes on the floor. Lance had the smoothies ready upon her return, serving them up in glass beer mugs. "So, what are your impressions from what you've seen so far?" "Wow, these are really good, Lance." My impressions...well, I think it depends on how far you want to take it. Are you looking for an all rooms makeover or something less comprehensive?" "Let's start with the kitchen. I already know what you must think of this wallpaper." He chuckled and took another sip. She nodded, then gave him her ideas on the appliances, the flooring, et al. After lunch, he took her into the den, a room tucked away off the other side of the garage. It was an addition, Lance explained, added when the couple's children were still in grade school. It had a parquet floor and built-in bookshelves with utility cabinets beneath them. Mallory liked this room, the warm intimacy of it, the way the sun streamed in through the windows. It exuded class, looked like a great space to read or listen to music. She pictured Oriental style scatter rugs and Scandinavian furniture to replace the sofa and the two comfort chairs that she felt looked too heavy. Other than that, she wouldn't do a thing to change it. Lance said it was his favorite room in the house. "This is where I come to chill out, to relax. Sometimes I'll watch a movie or a cycling event on cable. Other times I'll just pop in a CD and listen." Mallory nodded, admiring the tasteful manner in which Lance had integrated his wooden component unit into the room. It held a moderately sized, flat screen TV, CD player and receiver. The flanking, floor standing tower speakers were a dominating, though not overwhelming presence. "So musically, what are you into?" she asked, running her fingers along the fine grille cloth of one of the speakers. "Rock and jazz mostly," he said, stepping over to the cabinet where he kept his CDs. "Some classical also." "Classical, really? I'd love to hear some Rachmaninov if you have anything by him." Her parents, she explained, were big classical music buffs and had instilled that appreciation in her and her sister. Rachmaninov's "Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini" was her all-time favorite. "Beautiful beyond words," she said. She doubted it was among his collection. "Coming right up," he said, pulling the plastic album case from the cabinet. "You're kidding?! You actually have it?!" "I heard it months ago on the radio driving between clients. Classical music helps me to relax, especially in bumper-to-bumper, rush hour traffic. Like you, I love that piece and ordered a recording of it through Amazon." Mallory laughed to herself thinking that Lance would be the ideal catch for an ad she might place on a dating web site: "attractive, intelligent, physically fit, twenty-something female in search of handsome male, 25-35 years of age, who's into cycling and Rachmaninov." Unrealistic expectations, for sure, yet said handsome male was at this very moment popping into his CD player her favorite piece of music per her request. It was all she could do to restrain herself from throwing her arms around him as they sat on his sofa listening, her bare legs within inches of touching his. Had this been a date, she couldn't imagine a more perfect setting for romance. Of course, a date it wasn't. Her goal was to race for Tidewater, not get romantically involved with her cycling coach. Nevertheless, she closed her eyes, pictured the two of them canoodling on the sofa as the music enveloped her with its stunningly gorgeous melodies, wondering if Lance was thinking what she was thinking. Queen of the Tidewater Peloton He was, very much so. Something about her touched a nerve, something beyond simple physical attraction. He couldn't explain it. Who could explain these things? Yes, part of it was physical. That body, that face, that beautiful face and those emerald green eyes that seemed to convey something deep inside her that he longed to know. He loved her soft voice, her smarts, her spunk, her unique mix of balls and boobs, masculine toughness wedded to feminine vulnerability. If only she wasn't his client. But she was, and he had never mixed business with pleasure. Of course, there was always a first time. But that assumed she felt the same way. Did she? He soon got his answer when she made the first move, gently slipping her hand into his. Coach or no coach, this was a man she had grown very fond of. Further resistance was futile, what with Rachmaninov's music going and Lance so close she could almost taste his masculine scent as well as smell it, perspiration and all. The next thing she knew, her lips were pressed against his, and the music she so adored, once front and center, began to melt into the recesses of her brain. After a long smooch, Lance pulled away. "We're not supposed to be doing this, you know," almost laughing as he said it. "We crossed the line." She took a deep breath. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'm glad we crossed it. Can't my hot, handsome cycling coach also be my lover?" Before he had a chance to answer, she pulled out her barrette and shook her head, letting her long hair drop to its full length. "I'm not averse to crossing another line. That is, if you want to. And from what I feel down there," she continued, rubbing her hand over his crotch, "I'd say you want to." "Well, if you insist." "I insist," she said, and then proceeded to peel off her spandex outfit. Lance followed suit, then took her hand and led her out of the den, down the hall and into his bedroom. Lance might have been the best lover she ever had. No, not might. He was the best. Numero Uno. Not that there had been many of them, only three to be exact—Lance, Josh and Carl, her boyfriend in college. Lance had found ways to please her that she didn't even know existed. His foreplay alone might have been enough, what he did with his fingers and that wonderful tongue lashing he unleashed over her entire body, giving new meaning to the conventional use of the term. She came twice before he even entered her and then twice more after he did. He joked that women were lucky because they were capable of multiple orgasms. But Lance had been no slouch himself in that department either. His tally came to two, not exceptional in itself except when she considered the remarkable control he displayed throughout, his ability to maintain an erection for hours just to please her. Apparently, he was the antithesis of the stereotypical selfish male lover, the ones who put themselves first, getting off before their partner's pleasure could be fully realized. Her hot, handsome cycling coach had indeed also become her lover, but that didn't diminish her ambition to race for Tidewater. In fact, she was training harder than ever to realize that goal. Just days after their "den date," she was out on a forty mile training ride, peddling hard through a stiff northwesterly headwind, determined to set a personal best average for this distance. But it wouldn't be easy, for in addition to the wind, she still had hills to contend with—all types, from short and steep to long and steep and everything in between. This is where a peloton could help, a group of riders to motivate and draft off one another. That's what she liked about riding with faster recreational riders. Officially, they didn't race, but some of their group rides sure felt like races. She was ten miles out from the parking lot, maintaining an average speed of close to seventeen miles per hour, about tops for a female recreational rider, but still below what most of the Tidewater racing women were doing. Even so, it was progress. She had never reached that impressive number going into a headwind. She approached a hill about half the length of a football field, not terribly long, but its steep grade persuaded her to rise from the saddle. She breathed hard but rhythmically while silently counting out her peddle strokes as she climbed. She was so focused that she failed to notice the group of five female riders coming up behind her. They wore matching green and white spandex cycling attire with the name of their team scrawled across the backs of their short-sleeve jerseys: Tidewater Racing. "Passing on your left!" one of them called out as they reached Mallory just before the descent. Glancing sideways, she recognized the team's colors even before she saw their backs. She guessed it was a training ride. As the last rider in their pace line passed, Mallory's competitive drive kicked in and she jumped behind the last rider. Down the hill they went, hitting speeds of close to forty miles per hour. Mallory stayed on her wheel, exhilarated. Here she was, riding with team Tidewater a year before she planned on trying out for the team. Of course, she was descending and feeding off the slipstream of another rider. Her big test, she knew, would come once the hill bottomed out on to flat to rolling terrain. Seconds later, when it did, the lead rider steered off to her left, letting the pace line pass. Then she jumped in behind Mallory. "Well, look here," she said, her tone condescending and sarcastic, "we've got a hitchhiker." The comment felt like a slap across her face, deflated her morale. Should she bail or hang in there? The pace was averaging around twenty miles per hour, not the speed she'd be going at her current fitness level, particularly by herself. So far, she was keeping up but harbored serious doubts about whether she could do it beyond a few miles. No way could she do it from the front, which is where she'd be within minutes, assuming she'd last that long. Gritting her teeth, she hit the drops for a gain in aerodynamics. The riders soon changed position again. The lead rider slipped to the rear, moving everybody up, including Mallory who was now fourth from the front and doing her best to ignore her burning quads and pounding pulse. Even through her pain, she couldn't help but notice the women's bikes, lightweight carbon machines with upscale parts rolling on race-light wheel sets and not a triple crank among them. She wondered how much of an edge she'd gain on one of those. "Hey yellow Schwinn, is this routine for you, budding uninvited into pace lines of people you don't know?" It was the same woman who made the hitchhiker comment. Obviously, she didn't want Mallory there and wasn't shy about telling her. The woman in front glanced to her rear, saw Mallory and shook her head. She didn't say anything, nor did she have to. Her body language expressed like sentiments. "The name's Mallory and no, it's not routine at all. I'm hoping to join you guys by next year." "Really?" the woman sniffed. "Well, Mallory, maybe by then you'll learn some racing etiquette. We don't take kindly to interlopers." Mallory glanced behind her. "Sorry about that," she said, her tone ringing with sarcasm. She then turned back around, more determined than ever. She'd be dammed if she was going to be bullied out of this pace line. If they wanted her out, they'd have to drop her. Another shift followed, putting Mallory third from the front. The pace slowed with the rising terrain. Riders geared down, then geared down again as the terrain got steeper. Mallory rose from the saddle to meet the challenge, along with most of the others. At the hill's steepest stretch, the pace line fragmented. The head rider fell back, surrendering her lead to a woman with an ideal build for hill climbing, short and skinny. Mallory's antagonist passed her on her left. "Catch me if you can," she sneered. Mallory tried, summoning her remaining energy. However, the best she could do was creep close to the group's last place rider. But then she, too, dropped her, and by the time Mallory crested the hill, team Tidewater was at least twenty yards ahead. Making one final effort to catch them, she shifted to a higher gear and upped her cadence. Not happening. She was breathing like an asthmatic in distress. "Well, I tried," she whispered to herself, taking some consolation when her computer showed she was on pace to ride a personal best average of close to nineteen. She stopped peddling and coasted down the other side of the hill, taking deep breaths, forcing air back into her lungs, and thinking that the road to riding for Tidewater would be a long one. Lance was enjoying his down time. He sat in his den, watching a show on the History Channel while nursing a bottle of Sam Adams. Then his cell went off. It was Courtney Schaefer, his girlfriend and one of team Tidewater's strongest female riders. She and Lance had been dating for almost two years. Nothing too serious, mostly great sex and good times. Lance had never coached her in an official capacity, though he freely gave her advice when she asked for it. This call, however, was to tell him about one of team Tidewater's recent training rides. "So we're riding along, minding our own business, when this racing wannabe chick hitched her rude self to our pace line and then refused to leave. Even after I told her it was a no no." Lance chuckled. "Sounds like she needs a lesson in racing etiquette one-o-one. I teach my clients that too." "Well, apparently she's not one of your clients. You know, before we dropped her on a hill, she said something about joining our team next year. Good luck with that. First, she'll need to ditch that Schwinn of hers, triple crank and all." Silence. "Lance, you still there?" "Um, yeah. Did you get her name by any chance?" "Mallory somebody. She never gave me her last name. Why? Do you know a Mallory that rides a yellow Schwinn?" Lance took a swig and shook his head. He couldn't believe this. "Ah, no, not really." Racing etiquette did figure into Lance's training courses, though he had not yet broached the subject with Mallory. Still, he couldn't find fault with what she did, not entirely. Ambition was a huge part of competing, and it appeared that his Mallory had it in spades. Many women he knew, even those who aspired to race, wouldn't even think about mixing it up with team Tidewater on a whim and then refuse to back down when confronted. But he wasn't ready to tell Courtney that. "Listen, Court, thanks for calling. I'd like to talk more but I'm watching something on cable." "Okay, I'll let you go. By the way, maybe we could, you know, get together soon. If you know what I mean. It's been a while." She giggled. He laughed. "Yeah, a huge five days." "Can't help it. You've spoiled me with that awesome top tube of yours. You always know how to please." "Ditto from my end," he said before making tentative plans and hanging up. True enough, because he held a similar view of Courtney's prowess under the sheets as well. She wasn't nearly as pretty as Mallory, kind of plain looking, really. Brown eyes. Short brown hair. Thin lips. A long nose that looked somewhat out of place on her round face. Athletic bod, more angular than curvy. But she had a wickedly seductive, sensuous air about her that could still drive his cock into overdrive. But it was hardly enough for him to commit to her long term. Besides, he now liked someone else. No, he more than liked Mallory Greenfeld—he was falling in love with her. So, when Courtney called a week later to line up another date, Lance told her the truth about himself and Mallory. "I hope we can remain friends," is how he put it. "No hard feelings." Courtney just about choked over that line. She wasn't just pissed off, angry, or mad. She was furious over what she considered his betrayal, and responded with a blast of invective: "Look dickhead, tell that interloper girlfriend of yours that the only way she's joining our team is over my dead body." Lance gave Mallory a head's up about Courtney, told her that she was the woman who harassed her during that training ride, told her also that they had once been an item but that Lance, as well as Mallory, was now on Courtney's shit list. Another thing:She had earned the team's accolade, Queen of the Tidewater Peloton for having the most first place finishes. Far from intimidated, Mallory decided to use Courtney's hostility as a motivator. Over the next few weeks, she dropped weight, increased her training load and practiced cornering techniques for her first bike race, the Fairfax Bank criterium. The women would race over a .7 mile course, 30 laps for a total of 21 miles. Tidewater and other teams would be there as well as individual riders like Mallory racing unattached. "Don't let her spook you," Lance said as he and Mallory stood on the parking lot of an industrial park where the race was held, trading stares with Courtney who stood by her car a few yards away, giving them the evil eye. "Stay focused on what you've practiced over the past few weeks and you'll be fine." She nodded, feeling her stomach tighten. She was more nervous than she'd ever been before getting on a bike—nervous but also excited. Lance dispensed last minute advice, tips on cornering and the importance of staying as close to the front of the pack as she could. She then wheeled her Schwinn up to the starting point, already crowded with fifteen women, including Courtney and three Tidewater teammates. Seconds later, they were off on the first lap in typical July weather, hot and humid. The scenery wasn't much to look at—storage garages, warehouses, parking lots and businesses accessible to customers from the other side of the industrial park. Sightseeing was hardly an option anyway, even in the most bucolic of settings. Crits were perhaps the most dangerous of bike races. Riders tended to bunch up, and things could get very dicey around those sharp corners. Crashes were common. As in any road race, it was safest to ride in front to avoid being the victim of the domino effect, riders plowing into one another from the rear. But there was a downside. Leading from the front required the cyclist to work at least twenty percent harder. After the first few laps, Mallory found herself in a pace line of six riders about ten yards back from the lead pack, which included the four Tidewater women and two others. If she couldn't win this race—she knew her chances were slim—she was determined to at least make a respectable showing, and so far she was doing just that. By lap seventeen, her subgroup of six had dropped to three, with Mallory trading the lead with them. In addition to their black spandex shorts, one wore a pink jersey, the other a white jersey. Tidewater's lead had increased to fifteen yards, followed by the two other riders, followed by Mallory and her group, some ten yards in back of them. Mallory figured it would take a twenty second burst to catch them. But should she even try? With thirteen laps to go, it might be more prudent to save energy and hold her current pace. She figured those women might tire anyway, surrendering their position by default. Sure enough, halfway through lap twenty-one, they did, thereby putting Mallory and her group of three behind Tidewater. And that's the way things stayed through laps twenty-four and twenty-five. Then, after the turn at the start of lap twenty-six, pink jersey stood up and forged ahead. Clearly, this was an attempted break, not something Mallory expected or wanted. She was starting to tire. Her quads ached and her pulse was higher than she wanted it to be. Responding to pink jersey's attack would push her out of a comfort zone that she was beginning to slip out of already. She was on the wheel of the other woman who appeared either content with her position or too tired to do anything to improve it. Meanwhile, pink jersey was increasing her lead. Mallory knew that if she didn't jump now she'd lose her. Standing up, she mashed the peddles, blew by white jersey and then locked on to pink jersey's rear wheel. Pink jersey glanced behind her. "Wanna try to catch them?" Them, Mallory knew, was the Tidewater women. Three of them remained fifteen yards ahead, while a fourth had dropped back by about five yards, putting her within striking distance. "Sure, let's," Mallory said, doing her best to appear strong while struggling to catch her breath from the catch-up effort. "Okay, follow me," pink jersey said. "Charge!" Mallory drafted behind her new-found partner, spinning at close to one-hundred RPMs, slowly but surely closing the gap. Soon, what started as a solo break by pink jersey had turned into a little peloton of three—the "orphaned" Tidewater rider, pink jersey and Mallory, in that order. The order changed minutes later when pink jersey dropped back and signaled Mallory to take the lead. Up ahead, Courtney and her two teammates stayed together through lap twenty-seven, riding in a tight pace line. Their orphaned teammate stuck with Mallory and pink jersey, trading the lead with them every few minutes, working with them to stave off the riders behind them and to reel in the leaders, still some fifteen yards ahead. Mallory felt grateful for the help, doubtful that she could maintain this pace alone. She also sensed that this partnership of three would fracture once they hit the final lap. Then it would be every woman for herself, fighting for individual glory, just three laps away. Half-way through lap twenty-eight, only ten yards divided Mallory and pink jersey from team Tidewater. Mallory could see Courtney glancing behind, presumably concerned about Tidewater's dwindling lead. Linda Grabowsky, the orphaned teammate, confirmed as much. Pulling alongside Mallory, she yelled, "Courtney will go nuts if you catch her. She's still pissed over you and Lance." "Yeah, I know. But that's her problem." Pink jersey pulled abreast of the other two. "By the way, I'm Lauren. Who's Lance and Courtney?" "That's Courtney," Linda said, pointing her out. "She was once Lance's main squeeze. But now Lance is Mallory's coach and, well, I'll leave it at that." "Sounds complicated." "Not really," Mallory said. "The bitch got jilted and became more of a bitch." Lauren nodded. "I get it. I think. Meanwhile, let's see if we can catch them." Mallory's heart was willing; her body less so. She was more than hurting, she was beginning to suffer. Burning quads, burning lungs, but burning ambition as well, which is how she was able to summon her energy reserves, rise from the saddle and join Lauren and Linda in their pursuit. "Dig deep," she whispered to herself, watching those green and white jerseys get closer and closer. "Hey guys," Linda said, pulling behind Courtney, "I'm back." "I see," Courtney said, glancing to her rear. "And you dragged the enemy with you." Linda shrugged. "Hey, she helped me get here. That's what's important." Mallory pulled alongside Lauren and said, "See what I mean?" Lauren nodded, then dropped behind Mallory, who was now fifth from the front in this newly formed peloton of six. The group held together at the start of lap twenty-nine. Courtney now pulled from the front, followed by Mallory, Linda, Lauren, and the two other Tidewater women, Linda and Toni Garcia. Mallory knew she was next in line to pull. Courtney would drop to the rear, moving the others one place up. But instead of dropping back, she pulled alongside Mallory. "Still riding that triple crank Schwinn, I see. What gives? Can't afford a real racing bike? Or are you not putting out enough for Lance to buy you one?" Linda rolled her eyes. "Come on, Court, not here. We're in the middle of a fucking race, for god's sake." Queen of the Tidewater Peloton Courtney sneered. "Whose side are you on?" "Yours, of course, but this is over the top." "No, what she did is over the top," Courtney snarled. She then dropped behind Janine Bessette, one of her teammates. Mallory took her place at the front. She was now just beginning to understand the depth of Courtney's contempt, a good thing because it fueled Mallory's own anger at the way Courtney was treating her. The adrenaline pumping through her helped neutralize her suffering, her burning lungs and quads. She held her position for several minutes, then breathed a sigh of relief when Linda took the lead toward the end of the lap. As she dropped to the rear of the pace line, she caught Courtney's dirty look. The six kept pace through the start of lap thirty, holding off the riders to their rear whose repeated attacks fizzled before they could catch up. Spectators, most of them congregated near the start/finish area, cheered loudly as the riders passed. Lance stood with them, surprised but delighted that Mallory remained in the fight. Rarely had he seen someone progress so far so fast. Just as Mallory thought, the women began to vie for position, watching each other in a cat and mouse game. Their pace line was beginning to fracture, the sum no longer deemed more valuable than its parts. They tested each other, attacking in short bursts, then easing up, then attacking again, trying to assess who still had it and who didn't. Mallory still had it, as did Courtney, Janine and Lauren. But Linda and Toni were starting to fade under the withering thrusts of those four. Halfway through the lap, Lauren led, with Janine an inch from her wheel. Mallory and Courtney, a few bike lengths behind, rode parallel less than a forearm's length from each other. Mallory, already nervous from the close proximity, became downright fearful when her rival began to veer even closer until they brushed elbows. "Okay, bitch, let's see what you're made of," Courtney yelled. "More than you bargained for, queenie," Mallory yelled back, trying to hide her angst. She tightened her grip on the handlebars, struggling to maintain control of her front wheel that twitched with every elbow bump. Courtney, no doubt, was trying to run her into the ground—literally, and the only way out was to accelerate and get the hell away. She stood up and then rocketed forward, stopping a couple inches from Janine's wheel. Now, with some two-hundred yards from the finish, it was anybody's race. They weren't quite in a full sprint, but they were close. Who would jump first was the question. Courtney, it turned out, with a slingshot maneuver around Mallory. Then, with one-hundred yards to go, they all jumped, hunkered down on the drops, spinning furiously in high gear, putting out full wattage toward the finish line. Just a few yards from the line, it was Mallory, Lauren and Courtney, neck and neck, wheel to wheel. It looked as if there'd be a photo finish. Then, instinctively, Mallory rose from the saddle, mashing her peddles and pulling on her handlebars almost hard enough to break them. She surged ahead, winning by half a wheel length. Courtney and Lauren finished second and third respectively, followed seconds later by the rest of the pack. The riders hugged and exchanged high-fives, then mingled with friends and family members. Courtney, mad enough because of Mallory's win, became enraged when Lance and Mallory embraced, and got even hotter when Linda said, "Great race, Mallory. You're definitely good enough to roll with us now." Lance patted Mallory's butt. "Looks like you're being recruited." "Not by me she isn't," Courtney snapped. She threw down her helmet, then crossed her arms against her chest. "Since when did we ever have a committee of one to decide who joins us? It's by two-thirds majority, remember?" "Look, Court," Linda said, getting within inches of her reddening face, "Mallory's proven herself. I think she'd be a great asset to Tidewater. I know we need to vote on it and didn't mean to imply otherwise. But this girl deserves serious consideration." "Is that right? Well, far be it from me to deprive our team of a great asset." She turned away to see Janine set her bike down by the curb and step over to join them. "Great win, Mallory." Then she turned toward Lance. "Looks like your, um, coaching paid off, big guy." She winked. "What he didn't teach me," Mallory said, giving Courtney a hard, angry look, "is how to handle riders who play dirty, who bump up against you in an effort to make you crash." "Hey, all's fair in love and bike races," Courtney said, jabbing her finger in Mallory's direction. "You and Lance should know about the love part. Isn't that right Lance?" He rolled his eyes. "Get over it, Court." "Get over it Court," she said mockingly, her mouth distorted. "Right. Just like that. After two years of—oh, never mind. Anyway, what I did was perfectly legal. It happens all the time in the peloton." Turning to Toni, she said, "Linda here thinks Mallory is good enough to join our team. What say you?" "Honestly, Mallory made a fabulous showing today, especially for a novice racer. It proves once again that it's the rider not the bike." "Thanks. Is that an endorsement?" Mallory said excitedly. Toni nodded. "It is as far as I'm concerned." Courtney shook her head and clicked her tongue. Then she picked up her helmet and addressed her teammates. "You guys are too much. Obviously, loyalty isn't your strong suit. Ciao, I'm outta here." "Good riddance," Linda said once Courtney was out of earshot. Mallory thanked Linda and Toni for her support. To avoid being ostracized, Courtney voted with her teammates to let Mallory join Tidewater. Tri-State, the racing season's biggest crit, was coming up next month, so she would at least pretend to bury the hatchet. She still fumed and wouldn't speak with her unless spoken to. Still, she recognized that training with her as part of a well-oiled, cohesive unit working toward winning the big race took priority. She'd settle her vendetta later. So, on today's training ride, it was just three Tidewater riders—Courtney, Mallory and Janine. The ride would be short, about thirty miles but intense. Fast, in other words, and that included the ascents. Mallory knew that pain was in the offing. She could now hang with Janine on the hills. Courtney? Still not but she hoped to with more experience. The women were riding together like a Swiss watch, precise and beautiful. In perfect formation, they were climbing Rayville Road, a gentle riser that cut through a semi-rural section of the county. Mallory was doing well, pacing in the upper teens, keeping up with her two teammates, trading the lead with them every few minutes. Once around the bend, past the pasture where cows grazed off to their right, the road flattened out for a quarter mile, then descended, then rose again to a grade of over ten percent. Mallory knew that she was in for some major pain on that hill. Even so, she looked forward to testing her ever expanding aerobic threshold. Courtney would most likely drop her again, but so what? She'd never get better if she didn't keep pushing herself, if she didn't at least strive to be a climber of Courtney's caliber. Mallory now took the front, followed by Janine. Courtney, in the rear, saw and heard an oncoming car. "Car back!" she yelled, warning her teammates of the potential danger. They were now just past the bend, eight miles into their ride on this bright, warm Saturday afternoon, pushing their pace past twenty on the flat. "Car back!" Courtney yelled again, glancing behind her, seeing the vehicle get closer, aware that it was swerving and bearing down on them faster than the road's thirty-five mile per hour speed limit. "Watch it, guys!" she screamed. The women heard her warning, followed seconds later by the sound of screeching tires, then a loud thump, then glass shattering, then another thump. They didn't see the white Buick SUV until it swerved around them and sped away. "Oh my god! Oh my god!" Mallory cried. Courtney's bike lay in a mangled heap on the road. Courtney lay sprawled on her back. Her helmet was ripped off and blood covered most of her face. Her mouth was wide open as if terrified, as if she wanted to scream. But Courtney was silent and still. It was her two teammates who were screaming, holding each other, tears streaming down their faces. Within seconds, Janine was dialing 911, while Mallory knelt beside her fallen teammate, feeling for a pulse. "She's not breathing, and her heart...it stopped. We've lost Courtney. Oh my god! This can't be happening!" She began to apply chest compression, a form of CPR she learned in high school. She pumped thirty times. Still no breath or pulse. Then she pumped thirty more times. No change. Then, half way through another round, Courtney's vitals kicked in; her pulse and breath had returned. Mallory kept pumping until paramedics and police arrived. "Good work," one of the young male paramedics told Mallory. "You might have saved her life." By this time, other cars had stopped. Drivers stood by their vehicles in grave silence. Police cordoned off the crash site with yellow tape, waving on the rubber-neckers who slowed to gawk. Mallory and Janine gave police a description of the car, then continued to mill around the crash site after Courtney was flown to Shock Trauma. They were too shaken up at the moment to ride the eight miles back to the parking lot. Mallory was a mess of conflicting emotions. She believed in karma, you reap what you sow, all that stuff. Courtney had been a super bitch to her, even despising the very bike she rode on. But she'd hate to think that this was Courtney's comeuppance—a trip to Shock Trauma, serious injury, perhaps death. Janine, sensing Mallory's distress, threw an arm around her. Standing just over five-ten, Janine was the team's tallest rider. In body type, with her long arms and legs, she could pass for a basketball or volleyball player, though her well developed quads hinted that cycling, not hoops or nets was her chosen sport. "It's okay, Mal, I can imagine how difficult this must be for you, reaching out to help someone who treated you as shabbily as Courtney. Had I been in your shoes, I'm not sure if I could have done it." Mallory nodded, then picked up her bike. It was time to ride back. Courtney got lucky. Other than facial lacerations, a broken collarbone and a concussion, she pulled through. In a few days, after she was moved from intensive care, a doctor told her that had it not been for her teammate's quick response, she probably would have died. "Janine always had my back," Courtney said, propped up in her hospital bed. The doctor, a small Asian-American woman in her thirties, looked at her quizzically. "Janine? No, according to the paramedic's report, it was a young lady by the name of Mallory Greenfeld who applied CPR." Courtney could do little more than look away. Then she cried. Janine, visiting Courtney in her hospital room, confirmed the report. "I thought you were dead. We both did. But there was Mallory pumping away, trying to get your heart beating again, as if her own life depended on it." Courtney wiped her eyes, shook her head, feeling too ashamed for words. "Where is she? She's the only one from Tidewater who hasn't been up here to see me." "Actually, she's just down the hall in the visitor's lounge. She felt shy about coming in, unsure if you wanted to see her. Shall I get her?" Courtney swung her legs over the bed, slipped on her blue bathrobe and grabbed her walker. "No, I'm coming to her." Mallory, dressed in jeans and a green short-sleeve blouse, stood up when she saw her former nemesis approach. "Well, you look a lot better than when I last saw you," she said, trying to keep things light. Courtney smiled. "And you don't look half bad yourself. Like a queen, I'd say." Mallory met her in the hall and embraced her. "But aren't you the queen, Queen of the Tidewater Peloton?" "Not anymore. I've been dethroned, in more ways than one. You're the new queen." "But—" "No buts about it. Now don't argue. But don't get too comfortable either, because when I heal, I plan to come back and fight to win back my former status." Her lower lip began to tremble. "It was you who gave me that opportunity. And...and I can't thank you enough or apologize enough." "You don't have to," Mallory insisted. "But, being a veteran racer, maybe you could give me tips for placing high in Tri-State." "Mallory, I'll give you anything you ask for, racing related or not. But nothing could compensate for what you gave me."